


our souls are all we own (before we turn to stone)

by kay_emm_gee



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, F/M, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 18:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7652917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feyre didn’t believe in soulmates, and she was not about to let someone use her soulwords--the ones written on her wrist that she couldn’t see but others could, the ones her mate would one day say to her when they first met--against her to get something from her. The world had already taken enough; the meager remains left needed to be kept for herself alone.</p>
<p>{ Prompt: "maybe soulmate au where they have a tattoo of the first words there soulmate would say?” }</p>
            </blockquote>





	our souls are all we own (before we turn to stone)

Of all fighting Nesta did with Feyre growing up, not even the worst ones could tempt her sister to use her soulwords against her. Nesta used words like claws, but those words--the first words Feyre’s soulmate would say to her--were too sacred for even her to use maliciously. Since Feyre was old enough to understand that there were words on her wrist that everyone but her could see, words that her soulmate would say, she had refused to believe in them. She didn’t even want to know them, and even Nesta respected that. The only item Feyre bought for herself after their family’s fall from grace was a leather bracelet wide enough to hide the script from others’ prying eyes (she asked Elaine to make sure the size was right; Nesta couldn’t be trusted with that much).

Feyre didn’t believe in soulmates, and she was not about to let someone use those words against her to get something from her. The world had already taken enough from her; the meager remains left needed to be kept for herself alone.

* * *

  _Murderer._

That was what she thought of some nights, lying in her enormous bed in the Spring Court. She would stare at the ceiling and turn that word over in her mind--the first thing Tamlin had ever said to her--instead of sleeping. If that was her soulword, Nesta must have gotten so much joy out of seeing that on her wrist; Feyre was surprised that Elaine hadn’t cried when she first learned what it meant (to kill, to be someone who took life from someone else).

She was a murderer; she had killed Tamlin’s friend.

Feyre just wasn’t sure if she had killed her _soulmate’s_ friend. She had been at Spring Court long enough to want him, and to believe Tamlin wanted her. She just didn’t know if they were _supposed_ to want each other.

That thought always made her huff and roll over, because she didn’t believe in soulmates, even if being here in Prythian felt like she was finally finding a place for her heart to settle.

(She could easily have asked Alis what her soulwords were.)

(But she didn’t.) 

* * *

One of the fae who grabbed her almost pulled her wristband off. Even surrounded by the feral energy of Calanmai, Feyre was more terrified of having that privacy ripped away from her than anything else. She was so occupied with trying to release herself from her attackers’ grips that the newcomer took her off-guard.

In a heartbeat, the shadow-cloaked stranger was her savior, and then in another breath, he was just like Lucien, just like Tamlin. Just like any other Fae, his words running over her like oil and leaving her floundering for a solid grip.

Yet he was gone as fast as he had appeared, leaving her stunned in his wake. By the time Lucien was escorting her back up to the manor, Feyre finally realized that her wrist was throbbing. She uncurled her stiff fingers from where they gripped her leather band so tightly that her fingernails broke skin. She grit her teeth against the bone-deep ache rooted there; it would go away, soon. It had to. Shaking out her hand, she tried to get blood flowing again.

The painful tingling didn’t stop, not even when Tamlin found her later. As Feyre gasped at his teeth sinking into her neck, she could still feel sharpness pricking at the delicate skin of her wrist.

* * *

Furious as she was at Rhys for his trick, Feyre felt a twinge of relief underneath the hatred whenever she glanced at the tattoo. He had been an ass, to announce their bargain in such a way. Still, as soon as she realized that she had lost her wristband during the fight with the mud monster earlier, panic had seized her. She didn’t know what her soulwords were, but if they belonged to Tamlin ( _of course they belonged to Tamlin_ , her guilt chided her), it would only serve to make things worse for her if Amarantha saw them.

And if, by chance, her words did not belong to Tamlin, well--some other poor soul would no doubt be in danger of losing their life in a horrific way. Feyre couldn’t be responsible for that, not when she had so much blood on her hands already.

So she hated Rhys for what he had done, hated what the dark swirls crawling up her arm stood for, but--whenever she looked at them, she felt a little glimmer of relief that at least one of her secrets was safe for the moment. 

* * *

Her hate for soulwords grew even as time in the days, and then weeks, in the Night Court sapped the poison from her soul. She was even more relieved for the tattoo after finally leaving Tamlin behind. Feyre didn’t know if she could handle new friends glancing at her wrist and wincing or frowning or looking at her with pity if they saw the words and realized they belonged to the High Lord of the Spring Court.

If Tamlin was her soulmate, there wasn’t a thing she could do about it, not even if she didn’t love him the same way anymore. Not even if she stopped loving him altogether one day.

So she was glad of the tattoo, and she was beginning to feel warm when she thought of what it stood for. To fall asleep at night, Feyre traced the spiraling lines of dark ink. Soft, exploring brushes with her fingertips until she had the pattern completely memorized. Until it had her mesmerized, just like the stars that shone brightly over Velaris, just like Rhys’ smile.

* * *

“Tell me.”

Mor avoided her gaze as they stood outside the cabin. “Feyre, it’s not my place.”

“ _Tell me._ ” Feyre barely restrained herself from growling as she demanded to know what her soulwords said.

Mor must have seen them when she brought her to the Night Court that fateful day when she broke free of Tamlin. The bracelet must have slipped while she bathed her and changed her. She _must_ know--know that Rhys was her mate--and that knowledge ate at Feyre. The suriel had known, and Rhys had known, but still, she wanted to hear it one more time. She wanted to hear it from someone she trusted. From Mor.

“Are you certain?” Mor's words were quiet, but they seemed to echo through the forest all the same.

Feyre took one last steadying breath before nodding.

Mor said the words, the ones on her wrist, the first words Rhys had ever said to her-- _there you are….I’ve been looking for you_ \--and her gut clenched. His first words had been a lie, but it was a lie _for_ her, not _to_ her. On Calanmai, Rhys had lied to protect her, and even though he hadn’t know he was her soulmate then, the words still had a twisted sort of truth to them.

_I’ve been looking for you. Looking. For **you**._

And even when he had known he had found her, he had kept away. Rhys had let her have a choice.

He had made a choise too, though, to keep that knowledge--he was her mate, her _soulmate_ \--from her. All this time, she had been in the dark. Feyre wasn’t sure if she was ready to forgive him for that yet.

So she asked Mor to leave her, without asking the one question that lingered at the back of her throat.

_Do his soulwords belong to me?_

Feyre didn’t know if she wanted the answer to that, not until Rhys showed up at the cabin door with haunted eyes and a sorry heart. As soon as she set the bowl of soup in front of him, she knew. She knew she wanted to know the words, even if in her heart, in her _soul_ she already was certain what she would see written on his wrist.

Her words from that night would be there, without a doubt. Feyre could feel it in her bones, in the muscles that held her tired body together. So she asked, he told her, and then she kissed him without looking down. Instead, she slipped her hand into his, thumb brushing the inside of his wrist where the soulwords would be.

She didn’t need to read them. Feyre just knew: he was hers, and she was his. And no words could or would ever change that.

**Author's Note:**

> This was my first stab at writing these two, and I'd love feedback as I hope to write more!!


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